CHAPTER THREE
DAMIAN DIDN’T MIND wearing a suit. Hell, he didn’t even mind wearing a tux. But being forced to look like a cross between the Phantom of the Opera and an Eyes Wide Shut reject was pushing the limits.
The ballroom of Patterson House stretched out before him, resplendent with gold detailing. The building had been erected in the late 1800s, but the ballroom had been remodelled in the ’30s. It was a fitting location for such an event—heaving with history and old money, blue blood to the very core. The women were dressed in spectacular ballgowns and the men in tuxedos. Everyone wore a mask. Some were simple scraps of lace or filigree, leaving most of the face bare and recognisable. Others were more ornate, heavily beaded and elaborately designed, a feature of a person’s outfit rather than an afterthought.
He tugged at his own black leather mask. It had been designed to resemble a crow, and included sculpted satin feathers. Apparently, it made him look mysterious. That’s what he got for letting Aaron’s wife pick out a mask for him. But he’d made sure to ask her for one that only covered half his face. He didn’t see the point of attending without letting people know he was here, especially since an invite to the Carmina Ball was supposed to be life changing—acceptance from the people who “mattered.” A chance to get in with Melbourne’s power players.
But the invite had come with strings attached...to the tune of five thousand dollars for entry and expected participation in the night’s charitable events. Not that Damian had an issue donating to charity, of course. But he’d told his folks a little white lie about coming tonight so they didn’t worry he was frittering away his recently acquired wealth.
“Don’t you look handsome,” Jessie, Aaron’s wife, said as she placed a hand on his arm. “I knew you’d be a good addition to this circle.”
“Why, because you wanted some eye candy?” Damian smirked when she slapped her palm lightly against his bicep.
“Watch it,” Aaron said, sliding an arm around her waist. “You don’t need to worry about me getting jealous, but Jessie plots revenge in the way only a woman can. Hell hath no fury like a grammar girl scorned.”
Unlike Damian, both Aaron and Jessie had grown up as part of the elite, with expensive private school educations and safety nets padded with zeros. But regardless of their privilege, both were incredibly hardworking people. He’d met Aaron when they were in their early twenties as graduates at a big four consulting firm, doing grunt work and jumping every time a partner made eye contact. They’d learned the ropes together, climbing the corporate ladder in tandem until Damian left to work at Ben’s firm, and he and Aaron had maintained a valuable friendship ever since.
And it was because of Aaron and Jessie that he was here tonight, so he really should try to have fun.
“No denial, huh?” Damian said, nudging her with his elbow.
Jessie laughed. “They wouldn’t have put you on TV if you didn’t look the part.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Aaron muttered. “I had to find an extra ticket so his ego could attend tonight, too.”
Damian chuckled and scanned the room. “So, give me the lowdown. Who’s who around here?”
“That’s Arthur Wentworth and his sons, Parker and Ian,” Jessie said. “They own the Wentworth Group. Department stores, luxury vehicles, couture fashion—you name it.”
“They’re one of my clients,” Aaron added. “Don’t even think about poaching them.”
Damian smiled. Aaron had worked his way up to partner at that firm where they’d started their careers. Some days Damian wondered what might’ve been if he’d stayed there, too, instead of following Ben. Would he still have his positive attitude...or his wife?
“I won’t dip my hand in the cookie jar, I promise,” he drawled.
“Who else would be of interest?” Jessie clucked her tongue. “The Allbrook family is here—they own a huge architecture firm that does a lot of high-end residential towers in the city. We’ve got judges, politicians, CEOs, barristers, even a few celebrities. I heard a rumour that Cate Blanchett might be coming.”
“Excellent. I’ll ask for her autograph,” Damian said with a straight face.
Jessie looked horrified for a moment before she realised he was joking. “Damian, please.”
“Your South Yarra is showing,” he said. “You might want to cover that up.”
“Not here.” Aaron chuckled. “It’s practically a requirement for entry.”
Jessie rolled her eyes and pushed on, pointing out people across the room. “Oh, and my friend Amelia told me the restaurateur Jerry McPartlin is going to be here. I ate at his new place, Gilt, last week. It was absolutely divine.”
Damian’s ears pricked up, ignoring Aaron, who was giving him a stern look. “Really?”
Suddenly, the evening had gotten a whole lot more interesting. This would be the perfect opportunity for him to chat with the uptight family man in a social setting and try to figure out exactly what he needed to do to secure the guy’s business.
Did he need a girlfriend? A fiancée? Promise to give up his firstborn? Whatever it was, Damian was ready to sign on the dotted line. Snagging McPartlin & Co. would be the best possible thing he could do, because another big-name client was extra security. Relying only on one or two big fish meant your business balanced on a knife’s edge, and keeping the client happy often overtook the uncomfortable but necessary process of crafting the right solution for them.
The fact was, any big client would help him. But he wanted this one.
Signing McPartlin & Co. would give him the closure he needed to finally shut the door on his past. Or rather, slam it in the faces of those who’d broken his heart.
A while later, Damian stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. He felt like a kid at the zoo, his face pressed against the glass of the reptile enclosure. Everything happening in front of him was foreign. Alien. This wasn’t his world...yet.
Sure, he was rich by most people’s standards. He lived in a luxury hotel that cost more per week than what he’d spent on his first car. But that would be nothing to these people.
And he knew that an evening like this could make or break him. Get the right connections and his business would soar. Piss off the wrong person and...well, he could easily be back to doing grunt work for some asshole.
Damian clenched his fists and let the fantasy of punching his ex-boss in the face roll through him like a wave. The betrayal was no less raw today than it had been four years ago when he’d come back to the office late one night to pick up his laptop and found his wife spread-eagled on Ben’s desk.
The Carmina Ball was the key to it all. To revenge. To closure.
If only he could get close to Jerry McPartlin.
The man stood a few metres away, surrounded by a group of women who wore dresses so large they created a barrier around him. And it looked like he was loving the attention, too. Damian could wait. Patience and determination were two of his greatest strengths, and he would find the perfect moment to strike. Before the night was out, he would have a plan.
“I wasn’t expecting to find such good company playing wallflower,” a silky voice said.
A woman sidled up to him, her shimmering mask of white lace studded with gems that winked at him. Black hair flowed over one shoulder in stark contrast to a floor-length white ballgown. Her full lips were painted red and they curved into an inviting smile.
“That depends. What kind of company are you looking for?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Damian.”
“Hannah,” the woman replied. “You have a familiar face.”
Ugh. He could almost guarantee what was coming next, the one sentence that made him cringe every bloody time.
You’re that guy from Australia’s Most Eligible.
But instead she cocked her head, the gems on her mask shimmering, and said nothing.
He was about to respond when a blur of red stole the words from his mouth. Moisture soaked through Damian’s dress shirt and the sound of glass shattering pierced the subtle din of the ballroom. He’d been hit.
“Oh my God.” A woman with blazing-red hair reached out to touch his chest, her fingertips sending fire through his veins. “I am so sorry.”
Damian looked down. Wine streaked his chest, a slash of angry red against the crisp white cotton. The broken glass glittered in a pool of liquid on the floor, its stem rolling across the parquet.
“You got me good.” He brushed his hands over his chest in a futile attempt to clean himself up.
“Excuse me.” The redhead waved to get the attention of a waiter, but there was already a small army descending to clean up the mess.
Her silver gown was bunched in one hand, revealing a finely boned ankle encased in a strappy, high-heeled shoe. She tried to take a step but couldn’t shift her full weight onto her foot.
“You might have some glass in your shoe,” he said, reaching out to her. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She accepted his hand. Her mask was so detailed it was impossible to see much of her face—it covered her entirely from above her brows to above her lips. “I’m so sorry, my hem got caught...”
Damian narrowed his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe she was a business acquaintance? Or someone he’d met during filming? She seemed the glamorous type who might be part of the entertainment industry. But without seeing her face, it would be impossible to tell, and there couldn’t be too many people he knew who could afford the Carmina Ball’s ticket price.
Plus, he was sure he would have remembered a woman with hair the colour of rubies. A woman whose touch stirred something impossibly primal and strange inside him.
He looped her arm around his neck and supported her slight weight. But a few hobbling steps later, when it was clear she was frightened to put pressure on her foot, he lifted her into his arms and strode through the ballroom with what felt like the whole city watching.